Free The Clay Lion by Amalie Jahn Page A

made one
last trip into the attic to see if there was any area I was overlooking for
asbestos.  So far, I had found two potential areas.  I also retrieved
the box of letters from its hiding spot.  For some reason, I could not
stand the thought of them being thrown away or destroyed.
    On Friday night, Branson reported to us at dinner
that as the shingles were being removed that afternoon, a hole was found in the
plywood beneath that needed repair.  Mr. Cooper was sending a few of the
boys to clean out the attic the next morning.  Branson was assigned with
the task.  My heart sank.  I had failed.  As
it was before, so it would be again, if the attic was indeed the culprit.  
My mind raced furiously to think of something to say that would convince him to
avoid the attic as the demolition was being done.  But I had
nothing.  Not a single credible idea.  My attempt at saving him from
the asbestos exposure had failed.
    That night in bed, I prayed for a miracle. 
Perhaps Branson would develop a bout of influenza that would keep him
housebound until after the roof was complete.  And although I hated to
wish pain upon him, I could not stop myself from considering how a broken leg
would surely keep him from working for the next several weeks.  In the end
however, I acknowledged that God’s will be done.  If my plan was not
destined to work out, then so be it.  At least that is what I told myself.
    I rolled over for the hundredth time and glanced
at the clock on the nightstand.  It read 2:17 A.M.  Sleep was eluding
me and I finally decided to stop fighting.  I booted my tablet and
searched the internet for instances of asbestos exposure causing pulmonary
fibrosis.  As I began, I hoped that I would be unable to find any accounts
tying one to the other, thus effectively easing my mind.  Instead, I found
person after person citing one reason after another for their disease.  I
felt the tears coming.  Sadness and despair washed over me again.  My
body was wracked with heaving sobs. 
    And then, as only the mind of a teenager would, I
was struck with an image of Charlie and myself.  And
Branson.   All together.   Standing at my graduation.   What a joyful
thought.  I picked my head up off my desk and logged into the Hawk’s Ridge
Academy web site.  I searched for Charlie’s face among the pages strewn
with the photos of the school’s students.  By the third click, he
appeared.  He wore his blue and tan school uniform and stood, in what I
assumed was the school’s library, with the other members of the debate
team.  He was smiling directly at the camera and therefore it seemed as
though he was looking at me.  I instinctively placed my fingers on the
screen to touch his face.  Immediately, I acknowledged the ridiculousness
of what I was doing and dropped my hands into my lap.  I spent the next thirty
minutes crawling the school’s website for his
image.  I found him several times – in the swim team photo, in a candid
photo with friends eating lunch in the cafeteria, and in a photo of him at a
recycling center doing volunteer work.  I decided that, although I did not
know Charlie Johnson, I liked him.  Or rather, he seemed like a person I
would like if I knew him.  Finally, exhausted, I climbed back into bed and
attempted to fall asleep.  My last conscious thoughts were of my brother
and Charlie.
    In the morning, Branson was gone by the time I
dragged myself out of bed.  I had heard him quietly walking past my door
on his way out to work before the sun rose.  After my sleepless night, I
had no intention of getting dressed.  I dug through my closet for my red
robe, the robe that I practically lived in after Branson died.  It was
strange to see it still in such good condition, as the robe I left in the
future was missing buttons and falling apart at the seams.  I held it up
at arm’s length and then pressed it to my cheek.  It was like an old
friend with the power to comfort my aching